


Ivory and Gold

by Comatosejoy



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Corporate, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Just cuz I threw the regent in fuckin jail, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nicaise (Captive Prince) Lives, Pining, Very brief child abuse mention, kind of an enemies to lovers speedrun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28488915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comatosejoy/pseuds/Comatosejoy
Summary: Laurent is a cold, young businessman working for Arles Publishing and the adoptive father of Nicaise, a problem student at Chastillon Academy, where Damen is his teacher. Damen is shocked to learn at a New Years party thrown by Akeilon Publishing that cold, cruel Laurent is actually Lo--his best friend Auguste's sweet, shy baby brother whom he has not seen since childhood.“The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.”― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 96





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a oneshot but it turned out to be insanely long so I've chosen to split it into two chapters for your reading convenience. Additionally, I was planning on writing a smut companion piece as a sequel but only if you guys think I should lol. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! Comments make my day.

** november 15, 47 days until the new year **

It was apparent that Damianos Akeilon did not recognize Laurent de Vere. And why would he? Laurent had been eight when his brother and Damianos were in high school, and only twelve or so when they had started rooming together in college. Now he was twenty-two and significantly taller and less starry-eyed. Damen on the other hand, a huge brute whom Laurent had (embarrassingly) had a devastating childhood crush on, looked the exact same as he had when Laurent had last seen him unpacking boxes in a dorm, already making plans for the evening with Auguste. And it wasn’t like he had the same last name as Nicaise, and it wasn’t like Auguste ever referred to him as anything other than “Lo,” or “Starburst,” or some annoyingly cutesy version of “baby brother,” that Auguste would evoke specifically to watch the hard line of Laurent’s mouth as he tried to maintain his dignity. So it made sense that there was no recognition in his eyes as Laurent entered the classroom.

“You’re Nicaise’s legal guardian?” Damen asked, standing to shake Laurent’s hand. “I’m Mr. Akeilon.” 

“Laurent. I’m his foster parent, yes. It’s a bit of an unconventional situation,” Laurent said icily. Getting into his relationship with Nicaise would be to get into what Laurent’s uncle, residing currently at Arles Correctional Facility, had done, and that was not a conversation Laurent was willing to have with someone whose job was to corral middle- and high schoolers. 

“Alright,” Damen said after a pause. He was wearing a white button-up and, somehow, still looked larger-than-life. When Laurent had thought about his childhood, he had always attributed the memory of Damen’s size to the fact that he, himself, had been tiny. But no, Damen really _was_ that big. “I’m concerned about your child. He doesn’t seem to be adjusting.” 

“Well, he started in the middle of the semester, and only two weeks ago. You’ve barely given him any time to adjust.” 

Chastillon Academy was the best private school in the city, and it had not been easy to get Nicaise in this far into the term nor had it been cheap. But Laurent had leaned on his family’s name a little (whatever sway _that_ still held after his uncle’s scandal) when trying to register Nicaise and had gotten him in. 

“Nicaise is behaving antisocially at an age where being social is critical for development,” Damen said carefully, like he was gauging Laurent’s reaction before getting to the crux of the issue.

“If there’s something you aren’t telling me, I assure you that I am not easy to shock.” 

“There have been a number of what you might call ‘red flags,’” Damen said. “Most recently, there was an incident with several wasp nests.” 

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “Wasp nests?” 

Damen sighed. “Your child was having interpersonal problems with another student. This past week, wasp nests have turned up in the boy’s locker, his backpack, and his car. We had to have a wing of the school fumigated.” 

“His car? So the boy was older,” Laurent said, torn between amusement and concern. It was, admittedly, very clever. Wasps hibernate during the winter and only wake up in the warmer weather, meaning that Nicaise could safely transport whatever wasp nests he found in the woods to the school without getting stung, and then wait for the little bastards to wake up and sting the other boy. The fact that Nicaise was almost certainly being physically bullied by an older child, however, was worrisome.

“Yes,” said Damen. “Well, the other student is terrified to come to school. He jumped out of his skin when my phone buzzed during our meeting because it sounded similar to wasps buzzing.” 

“But you have no actual proof that my child did this,” Laurent said. 

Damen gave him an incredulous look. “I find it very unlikely that the same week Nicaise had problems with another student that wasp nests just appeared everywhere said student frequents.” 

“And I find it unlikely that Nicaise would do such a thing without provocation,” Laurent said. “What, I wonder, would cause a thirteen-year-old boy to be so scared that he felt he must resort to such measures? Allegedly, of course.” 

“Of course,” Damen answered, a little more facetiously than was strictly professional. “Alright, let’s set aside the wasp nest incident for a moment. Nicaise hasn’t turned in any assignments, though he appears to be very bright. He is openly contemptuous of authority.” 

Laurent nodded. “His previous living arrangement was dysfunctional,” he allowed. “I have him in therapy. We’re trying to get him back on the right track emotionally.” 

Damen nodded back. “That brings me to my main concern. I’m sure you’re aware that Nicaise is not a typical Chastillon student.” 

“I’m aware,” Laurent said, recalling the days when he, too, strode the halls of Chastillon, full of rich, entitled boys who probably had nothing in common with Nicaise. “I’m an alum.” 

“As am I,” Damen said pleasantly enough, but his tone was clearly shifting. “My worry is that Chastillon may not be able to meet Nicaise’s needs.” 

“And what needs are those, Mr. Akeilon?” Laurent asked poisonously.

“There’s a boarding school only three hours from here that had a psychiatrist in every classroom,” Damen said, producing a pamphlet from his desk drawer. “The tuition is less than it is here, and it might have some of the resources Nicaise needs to flourish.” 

Laurent looked at the pamphlet, advertising a school called Skarva Falls. He knew about this place; it was where rich people sent their problem children who got caught with cocaine or got one too many girls pregnant or had too many DUIs. It wasn’t a place for a traumatized orphaned boy from a working-class background. Suddenly he was very, very angry.

“The last thing my child needs is to be separated from me,” Laurent said. 

“Look, we both want the same thing: for Nicaise to develop healthy coping mechanisms and to grow into a well-adjusted adult,” Damen said. He was infuriatingly calm, and Laurent’s blood pressure spiked. 

“I don’t think we do want the same thing,” Laurent said. “I think I want what’s best for Nicaise and you want to ship him off to a rehab center masquerading as a school because he’s more challenging to work with than a typical Chastillon student.” 

Laurent stood, shrugging into his camel hair coat, concerned that if he stayed any longer, he might begin yelling. Before he stomped out, he turned to add, “I will speak to him about his homework. However, if I find out what that older boy did to my son, wasps will be the least of this school’s concerns.”

** december 11, 21 days until the new year **

Damen, two hours deep into grading final papers, ran his fingers through his hair and eyed the cigarette case on the edge of his desk. Every year, it was in New Years resolution to quit. And every year, as the holidays approached, he found himself still lighting up roughly ten times a day.

His phone buzzed, temporarily distracting him from the nicotine craving making his head hurt. Nikandros’s number crawled across the screen. 

“Nik!” Damen greeted, spinning in his office chair. “How’s it going, man?” 

“You know how your dad wanted to sell some properties to Arles Publishing? My counterpart is driving me fucking nuts.” 

“Oh yeah? What’ve they done?” Damen asked, standing up to pace around the room as anyone on a good phone call would do. 

“Oh my God,” Nik groaned. “Where do I fucking start? We offered to sell the rights to _Karthas_ for $5 million, and he said he wanted _Karthas_ and _Delpha_ for that price, which was completely batshit crazy because we make $15 million a year off of _Delpha_.” 

Damen chuckled. “Sounds like a real piece of work. I’m glad I left all that corporate shit behind.” 

“Speaking of which, are you coming to the New Years Eve ball? It’s Oscar Wilde themed this year.” 

“Yeah, I know. I got the invitation, but Jo’ll be there. I don’t know if I can face her.” 

“You said that last year,” Nik said. Damen could practically hear his eyes roll. “Honestly, I don’t know how she shows up for work every day knowing how badly she fucked over the CEO’s son.”

“I think it helps that you’re one of the only people at the company who know the real reason I resigned,” Damen said. On the other end, Nikandros had an inexplicable coughing fit. When he finished, Damen added, “I think I’ll see what Auguste is doing that night before I RSVP to anything.” 

“Ha! I already called him and asked him to be my plus one,” Nik said triumphantly. 

“Outmaneuvering me? I thought we were friends,” Damen said, feigning injury in his voice.

“Not if you bail again this year we’re not,” Nik replied. “These company things are only fun when you’re there.” 

“Fine, but I’m not dressing up like a 19th-century dandy,” Damen said. “And I’m going to get really drunk and make it your problem.” 

“It wouldn’t be New Years without you vomiting on my shoes, bro.” 

“I was _twenty_! How many times do I have to apologize for that?” 

Nik laughed at Damen’s expense. “Okay, I’ll let you go. We still on for drinks on Friday?” 

“Yeah, man, see you then,” Damen said, ending the call. 

He sat down and turned back to his desk. The next paper in his stack belonged to Nicaise. That situation, at least, had improved since he’d spoken to the child’s guardian--a man as attractive as he was cagey and unpleasant--the month before. The kid was still disrespectful, sometimes even downright mean, but his grades had, miraculously, improved. He initially had some reservations about Nicaise’s guardian being so young, but he had to dismiss that as an unfair prejudice. After all, Nicaise showed up for school on time and in uniform and remained sober and in class the entire day, and no more wasp nests had shown up. All things considered, that was a win.

** december 31, 9 hours until the new year **

Laurent had gotten his suit during a business trip to Milan. It was an extravagance, but he rarely treated himself, and he reasoned that having one really nice suit was only pragmatic. It wasn’t that he was hurting for money; quite the opposite. In his field, he was considered a wunderkind. He had graduated from his university at nineteen and, when he was hired at Arles Publishing at the age of twenty, he was the youngest person to hold his position in the subsidiary rights department. There were interns older than him, fetching his coffee and still slogging away at their undergraduate degrees.

The suit was oxford blue-- “Such a serious color for your age,” the tailor had said in her Italian accent as she tried to persuade him in a brighter direction. She showed him different swatches of fabric: one teal, one peacock, one azure, but Laurent remained steadfast. He _was_ serious for his age, and finally the woman rolled her eyes and began taking his measurements. 

How ridiculous, he had thought as he walked away from the tailor, to have something that can only be dry cleaned. But when the suit had shown up at his door two months later, he had felt the impractical silk lining with a kind of reverence. 

And he was glad that he had something nice enough to wear to the New Years Eve ball that the rival publishing house was throwing. He had been having rather heated negotiations with a tall man who possessed a short fuse. Offer, counter-offer, then a fifteen-minute break so this Nikandros fellow could smoke a cigarette and regain his composure. This had been the routine of their weekly meetings since they’d entered into this deal, and neither of them had gained any ground. But maybe if Nikandros got drunk enough this evening, he could be persuaded into entering into a more favorable agreement and signing the deal. Laurent wasn’t above playing dirty, after all. 

Laurent had spent three hours getting ready. Indulgently, he let Nicaise curl his eyelashes and pick out the wingtips he would wear. The former made him feel like a doe-eyed babydoll and he resisted the urge to splash his face with water to uncurl them (which he still might do once he got to the event and doing so wouldn’t hurt Nicaise’s feelings). Of the latter, Nicaise had chosen a pair of velvet smoking loafers--not even wingtips!--which Laurent slipped on dutifully, muttering, “They’re all going to know I’m gay if I wear these,” to which Nicaise flippantly replied, “You’re going to an Oscar Wilde-themed ball thrown by a competitor specifically for the drama of it all,” which Laurent couldn’t argue with.

** december 31, 5 hours until the new year **

Damen tilted the salt shaker onto the back of Auguste’s hand. “Ready?”

“Ready!” Auguste whooped, licking the line of salt, swallowing the tequila shot, and biting into a lime. Damen mirrored his actions, and they both came away with pinched faces from the citrus. Then they grinned at each other, as gleeful as any two former frat bros doing frat bro things could be, only to be torn out of their testosterone-drenched reverie by the front door unlocking and Nikandros, using his spare key, strolling into Damen’s kitchen. 

“It smells like you guys are making bad decisions in here,” he said. 

Unbothered, Damen turned the full force of his million-watt smile on Nikandros and merrily said, “We only get two drink tickets each. This is simply the practical way to do things.” 

“I seem to remember the two drink tickets not at all stopping you in the past,” Nikandros answered. 

“In the past, I was the one paying for the bar in the first place,” Damen said, pulling on the Tom Ford dinner jacket he’d purchased for this occasion. Despite his teacher’s salary, Damen had an immense amount of disposable income: he used to be the CFO, second-in-command behind his father, at Akeilon Publishing and, despite quitting two years ago, still held his shares. Not to mention the frankly obscene sum he had inherited from his mother. “Let’s roll.”

** december 31, 4 hours until the new year **

Laurent had not expected Damen to be at the New Years ball. Given that the whole shindig bore his name, that was an absurd assumption to make, but it wasn’t an assumption without some basis in reality, because the previous year Auguste had mentioned that Damen was blowing off a ball thrown by Akeilon Publishing to avoid his ex-girlfriend.

So Laurent, not expecting to see Damen, nearly had a stroke when he saw his massive frame at the bar, champagne flute looking tiny in his huge hands. This was followed by the realization that surely he _was_ having a stroke, because Damen was flanked by Auguste and the man he’d glared at across the table in a boardroom once weekly for the last six weeks. 

No, he was not having a stroke. He had died, and this was hell. He knew it when Auguste spotted him and gleefully waved him over. 

“Lo! Starburst! Baby brother!” Auguste said as Laurent begrudgingly slunk over, glaring at Auguste. Knowing how much he detested being referred to in any infantilizing manner, he continued: “Tiny, little, itty bitty baby bro!” 

“Stop,” Laurent said. Auguste was, perhaps, the only person unimpressed with his show of severity, probably because Auguste was, perhaps, the only person who _knew_ it was a show. Damen and Nikandros both looked as though Auguste had produced a canister of gasoline and suggested that they all drink it: a mix of shock and horror and grim realization ( _of course, the resemblance is obvious, how could they not have seen it before_ , they were probably thinking).

“Give me your drink tickets,” Auguste said. And then, “Did you curl your eyelashes?” 

Laurent grimaced briefly. “Nicaise did. I barely made it out of the house without glitter on my eyelids, I daresay.” 

“That’s hilarious,” Auguste said. “You’re such a softy.” 

Damen and Nikandros had still not collected their jaws from the floor as Laurent handed over his two drink tickets. “What sort of terrible puns have they come up with for the menu?” he asked casually. 

“Not as many as you’d think. They have, like, every kind of gin imaginable, though. Lo, you remember Damen,” Auguste said, turning to the still-shocked man beside him. “And this is our friend, Nikandros.” 

Laurent gave a tight-lipped, polite smile. “Yes. I recently had the pleasure of discussing wasps with our friend Damen. And not the kind who likes golf and wears boat shoes, either.” 

“Oh, that’s right! Damen works at Chastillon now!” Auguste said, smacking his forehead with the heel of his palm. 

“Laurent, guardian of Nicaise, is your little brother, Lo,” Damen said flatly as though he had not processed anything that had happened in the last three minutes. Then his brows drew together and, on a boozy exhale, blurted, “Hey! You basically told me I was incompetent!”

“You are,” Laurent said icily, recalling the white-hot rage that had rolled through him when he returned home from his meeting with Damen and Nicaise had shown him, ashamed, all the bruises under his clothes from being shoved around. 

“So you’re not just difficult in a negotiation, either,” Nikandros said, and Damen gaped further. 

Auguste, rather entertained, said, “You seem to have quite the reputation.” 

As if this was anything new. He had earned the nickname of the Cast-Iron Bitch back at Chastillon after Auguste had left for college and there was no one to stop people from picking on him. He quickly discovered that being mean as all hell was the only way an effeminate kid who skipped two grades could possibly survive. 

Laurent ordered a club soda from the bar so as to have something in his hands. He was getting dangerously close to fidgeting sheepishly and flushing at his brother’s gentle ribbing, something that simply would not do in front of his competitor and Nicaise’s incompetent, handsome teacher. 

Wrapping the cocktail napkin around the glass, he took a small sip. 

“I don’t get it,” said Damen, openly gawking at Laurent in a way that made Laurent want to fold in on himself. “You were such a sweet kid.” 

“He’s _still_ a sweet kid. Aren’t you, my widdle baby infant brother?” Auguste said, ruffling Laurent’s hair. 

“I’m a delight,” Laurent said coolly, taking another sip.

** july 2, 4200 days until the new year **

Laurent, at nine years old, was an unstoppable reading machine. He had just powered through the first two novels in _The Chronicles of Narnia_ and was about to start the third before he realized that he had not eaten anything all day. He stood and stretched, his muscles only a little stiff from sitting in the same position for hours on end (the wonders of youth), and made his way to the kitchen. He only knew how to make scrambled eggs at that age, so he took a pan and set it on the burner before removing the butter and eggs from the fridge.

The sliding glass door near the kitchen opened and instantly, the acrid scent of body odor, of teenage musk, hit him. 

“You smell like Jabba the Hutt’s asshole,” Laurent said, without turning around from the stove. He’d just started cussing and thought he was getting good at it. Plus, the more creative he was, the harder Auguste laughed at it. 

“That’s a new one,” a voice, which decidedly did not belong to Auguste, chuckled from behind him. 

Laurent spun around, clutching the spatula to his chest in terror, because he recognized the voice. It belonged to Damianos Akeilon. Damianos Akeilon, whose face Laurent had cut out of one of Auguste’s snapshots and glued the image to the inside of his journal. He’d been so neurotic--futilely not wanting Auguste to know about his crush--that he shredded the rest of the photograph and flushed it down the toilet. Damianos Akeilon, star of nearly every sport at Chastillon, fierce rival and best friend to his brother, whose name held a certain mythos among the underclassmen. Damianos Akeilon, who was standing shirtless in the kitchen in front of furtive, sweet Laurent. 

When Laurent finally managed to say something, it came out all at once: “I’msosorryIthoughtyouwereAuguste.” 

“He’s in the backyard. Push-up contest,” Damen said, gesturing to his bare chest as if Laurent could relate, though he would never willingly do _one_ push-up, let alone enter into a competition to see who could do more. “I’m supposed to get water.” 

Laurent pointed to the refrigerator, hand shaking, and Damen took two easy strides (he was so big!) across the kitchen and retrieved two water bottles from the fridge. Laurent trembled like a leaf. He could feel the heat radiating off of Damen’s body from where he stood.

It would be many years until he had any sort of carnal feelings. Now, at age nine, what he knew of romance was from comedy movies that boys his age usually found boring but he loved, and he would fantasize as he lay awake at night about Damen being the male lead in those movies and he the female. He’d play out _Pride & Prejudice_, imagining Damen as dour Mr. Darcy (didn’t really fit) and he as Elizabeth Bennet, or they would be in _The Notebook_ , Damen restoring a house for Laurent and writing to him every day. The most risque he ever got was imagining a closed-mouth kiss between them.

“Whatcha been doing all day?” Damen asked. This was something Laurent liked about Damen: he was always friendly and personable, even when faced with a stammering, red-faced nine-year-old. 

“R-reading,” Laurent managed to get out. 

“Making scrambled eggs? That looks good,” Damen said. 

“I’ll make you some!” Laurent blurted and then flushed impossibly darker. 

“Hell yeah! I would love some scrambled eggs,” Damen said enthusiastically, sitting down at the table. 

Laurent’s heart pumped out of his chest as he added two--then looked over at Damen’s enormous form and added a third--eggs to the mixing bowl, beat them, and poured them into the now-hot pan. 

Minutes later, he set a plate of eggs down in front of Damen and sat opposite him, eating his own. 

“These are the greatest eggs I’ve ever had in my life,” Damen said. 

Laurent shot his eyes up from his plate immediately, thinking Damen was making fun of him at first. But he wasn’t; he met Laurent’s gaze with an earnest smile. Laurent, who had recovered somewhat from his searing blush earlier, turned completely scarlet once again. 

“Hey man, what’s taking so long?” Auguste said from the doorway, raising an eyebrow at the plate of eggs in front of Damen. 

“Protein, bro,” Damen said.

“You never make _me_ eggs,” Auguste said teasingly to Laurent. 

“Only because you’re always gone before I wake up, darling,” Damen said sweetly, at once deflecting Auguste’s teasing and cracking a joke. Laurent was in awe of him--his easy mannerisms, his kindness, his strong jaw and brown skin and height and dark eyelashes--and pointedly stared at a spot on the table so as not to look into Damen’s eyes and somehow give away all his secrets in one glance.

** december 31, 3 hours until the new year **

Auguste did not smoke cigarettes but still accompanied Damen outside so that he could get his fix.

Taking a drag, Damen shook his head in disbelief. “Man, your little brother fucking reemed me out over Nicaise last month.” 

Auguste laughed at the truly amusing image of Laurent--his sweet little brother--going completely postal on a bemused Damen. “Yeah, he’s a real mama bear, that one.” 

“I’ve got to ask: How does a guy in his early twenties end up with a teenage boy?” Damen asked innocently, and Auguste felt himself freeze.

“It’s a bit complicated,” Auguste said carefully as he considered whether or not telling would betray Laurent in some way. “Our uncle was a foster parent. He took in usually one boy at a time. He lived up in Varenne, and Laurent had a business trip there and crashed in the guest bedroom. Our uncle was fostering Nicaise at the time.” 

Auguste tried--and failed--to keep the disgust out of his voice as he continued: “Laurent noticed that Nicaise was acting very strangely.” 

“Strangely,” Damen repeated, clearly not catching Auguste’s drift. 

Auguste rolled his eyes. Damen always was the densest motherfucker on the planet. “There were a lot of new stories about it. Nicaise’s name wasn’t in any of them because he’s a minor, but do you remember last year when all that stuff about corruption in the foster care system was exposed?” 

Recognition flickered over Damen’s face. 

“That was Laurent,” Auguste said, thinking about how much courage it took to do what Laurent had done, especially when their uncle had gotten wind of what was happening and had threatened Laurent’s life. All of this Auguste found out at the trial, and though he was disturbed to have learned it, he was glad he hadn’t known in advance, because they would have been at a different trial entirely if he’d known: one in which Auguste was being tried for murdering their uncle. 

“That’s--” Damen started quietly, just as impressed with Laurent’s keen sense of justice as Auguste had been last year. “Kind of amazing.” 

“I know,” Auguste answered proudly.

** december 31, 2 and a half hours until the new year **

“If you knew who I was, why didn’t you say anything?” Damen, back from a smoke break outside, said, leaning against the wall next to Laurent where he was trying not to pout. It appeared that Nikandros was the designated driver of the trio and was nursing the same scotch he’d ordered an hour ago. So much for Laurent’s plan, which had, admittedly, not been very good in the first place, but he was under a lot of pressure at work and was pretty much throwing shit at the wall to see what stuck at this point.

Laurent huffed out a mirthless little laugh. “Oh, sure. Hello, I’m Laurent, you know me as Lo, or Starburst, or sweet little baby brother. What has my traumatized child done to warrant this reunion?” 

“Well, it might make things easier for Nicaise if he knows I’m friends with Uncle Auguste,” Damen said. 

“It would hardly make for a dignified meeting if you were looking at me and remembering the time I stole that 36-pack of condoms from your bedroom your senior year of college,” Laurent answered, and then flushed, because he hadn’t meant to bring it up. 

“That was _you_?” Damen asked. “I blamed Auguste for that for, like, years! I called him a sex deviant every chance I got. I was like, ‘I go play an away game and a brand-new box of condoms just disappears? I was only gone for three days!’” 

Laurent had been fifteen, and close to graduating early from Chastillon. At the suggestion of his parents, he’d stayed with Auguste for the weekend to see if he liked Marlas University. Damen had been out of town, and Auguste had to leave for a four-hour shift at some pizza shop he worked at on campus. 

Laurent, who had never really gotten over his crush on Damen, used this time alone to sneak into Damen’s room. There is nothing so feral as a horny teenager, and when Laurent remembered that night, he would lean hard on that as an excuse. He got into the bed, settled into the sheets, and breathed in the smell. He opened the drawers of the dresser and removed a pair of silky boxer-briefs and--and sometimes he would cringe at this even in the privacy of his mind--licked the crotch of the underwear. He folded it up back neatly and put it where he found it. He opened the nightstand drawer and was faced with a bottle of lubricant and a horrifyingly large box of condoms. 

Jealousy had shot through him, which he recognized as nonsensical given that Damen was an adult man and hadn’t seen Laurent in roughly three years and never thought of Laurent that way anyway. Still, he angrily snatched up the box. 

Later that week, in another cringe-worthy gesture, he had dramatically hurled the box into the ocean from a high point on the side of the road, attempting to symbolize the end of his crush on Damen and thus the close of his childhood. It had not been nearly as cathartic as he had hoped it would be. In fact, it was just littering with extra steps. 

“I didn’t even use them,” Laurent said, though that hadn’t really been an option for him. “I threw them off a cliff. Into the ocean.” 

He didn’t know why he admitted it. Probably because it was deeply funny to think of himself at fifteen, hormonal and confused and having earlier that week literally _licked a man’s underwear_ with tears streaming down his face as he hurled an economy-sized box of Trojan Magnums into the Ellosean Sea. He was smiling despite himself. 

“Why did you do _that_?” Damen asked, both amused and fascinated. 

“Teen angst,” Laurent answered, shrugging. 

“Why did you choose my condoms for this? I’ll have you know, I had a very disappointed young man not get what he wanted because I didn’t have any protection.” 

It shouldn’t have made Laurent oddly satisfied that Damen didn’t get to have sex with someone because of Laurent’s actions, but it did. And then--did he say _man_? Laurent could feel his pulse spiking. 

Laurent rolled his head against the wall he was leaning on to look at Damen. Damen, it seemed, had been looking at him this whole time. He did not allow himself to think about the color of his eyes--where they umber? Ochre? He did not allow himself to think about the cut of Damen’s jaw, or the stubble that lined it, or the mess of curls on his head. 

“If it’s any consolation,” Laurent said, “I feel very bad about polluting, in retrospect. Imagine a sea turtle swallowing one of those extra large condoms.” 

“You don’t know,” Damen said playfully. “Maybe you helped a whole school of dolphins practice safe sex.” 

At this, Laurent laughed. “I think that should go on my resume. ‘Implemented a safe-sex program for marine life.’” 

“I mean, I’d hire you,” Damen said.

“You’re about two years too late. I wouldn’t have minded hearing that from the future CEO of Akeilon Publishing.” 

Damen looked away thoughtfully, almost furtively, then, and Laurent could imagine that he was thinking of all the different bifurcations life can take. That’s what Laurent was thinking about, anyway.

** september 12, 471 days until the new year **

The heart was a capricious thing. This is what Damen told himself as he sullenly plodded through the park near his house. He didn’t want to sit alone in his living room. He didn’t want to call anyone. He didn’t want to be in the park, either, now that he thought about it.

The heart was a capricious thing--except, was it? Damen never felt especially fickle. But this was the only explanation he could really wrap his mind around. Jo no longer loved him because--because the heart was a capricious thing. It wasn’t because he left his dirty clothes in a pile behind the bathroom door when he showered. It wasn’t because he was loud, or forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste, or got tunnel vision occasionally. He was guilty of all these things, but they weren’t reasons to stop loving someone. 

Or maybe they were. He hadn’t stuck around to ask questions. There had been a few seconds there where he was angry: _I quit my fucking job so we could be together, Jo,_ he almost said. And then, _Why the hell haven’t you said anything if you’re so unhappy?_

But he didn’t say anything in the end. His mouth had pressed into a hard line, and he had nodded solemnly, and he had turned around and walked out of her apartment without looking back. You can’t make someone love you if they don’t. So when she’d broken up with him, he had grimly accepted it.

He swallowed his stupid fucking pride and dialed Nikandros, preparing for the told-you-so of a lifetime. Because Nikandros, back when he’d turned in his resignation because pursuing a relationship with one of your employees is unethical, had absolutely tried to talk him out of it. 

The phone rang twice before Nikandros picked up and Damen, heaving a very heavy sigh, said, “So it turns out you were right.”

** december 31, 2 hours and fifteen minutes until the new year **

What was that saying? Speak of the devil and she doth appear? Well, Damen had not been speaking of the devil, only thinking about her.

Here’s the thing about Jo: after she broke his heart, she was with a new guy almost immediately. And this guy looked a lot like Damen but, in his opinion, was uglier and had worse taste, though that could have been the bitterness talking. Maybe this guy was great. Maybe there was a reason they got married within months of being together. 

And there that dumb, uglier man was, following after Jo worshipfully. Jo, wearing a billowy Valentino dress that he remembered because he had bought it for her. The dress fell oddly around her belly and he realized, with a start, that she was pregnant. 

“ _Christ_ ,” he said. Nikandros could have at least given him the heads up. He turned to look at Laurent, who seemed to understand the situation vaguely--no doubt Auguste had told him something of the story. 

“Perhaps I should have thrown the box of condoms at her instead,” Laurent said wryly. 

This caused Damen to chuckle softly. The levity was short-lived, though, because Jo had seen him. 

“Damianos. How good to see you,” she said, her husband a half-step behind her. To Laurent, she arched an eyebrow. “Is this your date?” 

“Laurent, Arles Publishing, subsidiary rights,” Laurent said, the chill returning to his voice, and for once, Damen was glad for that chill. “I was able to obtain my own invitation.” 

She ignored Laurent and said, “This is my husband, Kastor. Kastor, this is Damianos. He used to be the CFO here. Now he teaches at Chastillon.” 

Damen blinked. Surely she had mentioned him before to this Kastor asshole. 

“What an interesting career shift,” Jo’s husband said, and Damen couldn’t help but feel like Kastor was, on some level, trying to posture as the tougher of the two. 

“Pedagogy is something I believe in deeply,” Damen said, at once confident yet detached. If Kastor was looking for a dick-measuring contest, he would have to look elsewhere. 

Damen could see Nikandros from across the room, who had noticed what was happening about a minute too late and was hauling ass towards them to diffuse the situation. But, as it turned out, Nikandros was not needed, because in that tense moment, Laurent spoke. 

“There aren’t enough young people going into education,” Laurent said. “We all think we’re intellectuals, being in publishing, but being able to _create_ intellectuals is a different ballpark entirely. Did you see that study about how the average person reads only one book a year? Can you imagine having the power to change that?” 

“Very noble,” Jo said, visibly reassessing Laurent as a threat. “It was nice to see you, Damianos.” 

“The pleasure is all mine,” Damen said, failing to keep the sarcastic drawl out of his tone. When she had gone, he turned his eyes on Laurent. “Thank you for saying that. You didn’t have to.” 

“She’s wearing espadrille wedges. She deserves every bad thing that comes her way,” Laurent said, rolling his whole body to face Damen properly.

Damen smiled, only slightly wistful, and angled his body to face Laurent in response. 

“So, which of these fine ladies and gentlemen would you most advise me to schmooze?” Laurent said. Just a hint of mischief, featherlight, passed over his face. 

“Why, me, of course,” Damen said playfully. 

Laurent gave him an incredulous look. 

“What?” Damen said. “I’m serious. My father owns the company. My best friend is your counterpart in sub rights. About two-thirds of the guys here owe me favors.” 

As if to prove his point, a man Laurent recognized as the head of acquisitions came up to shake Damen’s hand. When he had left, Damen raised an eyebrow as if to say, _See?_

Actually, that wasn’t the only reason that Damen was the best person in the room to schmooze, because Theomedes Akeilon was going to make an important announcement just before midnight.

** december 19, 13 days until the new year **

Charls’ Inn was a farm-to-table gastropub popular with Instagram influencers, which served obscenely expensive avocado toast and had a completely ridiculous beer list. It was one of Damen’s favorite places, but it was decidedly a spot for millennials, which was why he was surprised that his father had asked him there for lunch.

“CBD-infused hummus?” Theomedes asked critically as he perused the menu. 

“We can go--” Damen started to say before Theomedes raised a dismissive hand and, when the waitress came by, gamely ordered a vegan burger and an IPA with a name that might’ve been funny ten years ago but was now as cringe-worthy as a long-dead meme. 

“Was your New Years resolution last year to try new things and you’re trying to slip in under the wire?” Damen asked teasingly. 

“Actually, my resolution was to announce my retirement,” Theomedes said seriously. 

Damen, who had been reaching for a sip of water, froze. He looked up to meet his father’s eyes, his hand still outstretched. Matching his energy, Damen said just as seriously, “This is big. Have you given thought to your replacement?” He lifted the glass of water to his lips and sipped. 

Theomedes nodded. “I want you to come back to Akeilon Publishing, son.” 

Damen choked on his water, feeling his cheeks get hot. He couldn’t come back. For a number of reasons. 

“Son,” Theomedes said. “I won’t ask you to quit your job in the middle of the term. I can retire in the summer so you can finish the school year with your students.” 

“It’s not just about my students,” Damen said. “I mean, I resigned for a reason.” 

The food and drinks arrived and Theomedes took a long sip of his IPA. “Ah, yes, you and Jo.” 

Damen’s jaw dropped. “You knew?” 

“Damen, you have many admirable qualities. You’re excellent at so many things. Being sneaky is not one of those things.” 

Damen carded his fingers through his hair, feeling stupid. 

“Listen, I think it shows a real commitment to ethical business practices that you resigned before pursuing a relationship with an employee. It’s quite literally the opposite of a sex scandal. Everyone who knows about it thinks all the better of you for it.” 

“Yes, but I can’t return and be Jo’s boss again,” Damen said. 

“We’re trading Jo to Arles Publishing,” Theomedes said matter-of-factly, and then when he saw the unanswered question in Damen’s eyes, he added, “Don’t think this is because of you, son. We were downsizing her department anyway. She’s pleased as punch. She got a promotion out of the deal. Her last day is January 10th.” 

“Oh,” Damen said, relieved that they didn’t fire his ex just to get him back. That would have been the _opposite_ of ethical. 

“You don’t have to accept. I know how much you love teaching. It’s just--” and here, Damen could see the smile dancing on the corner of his father’s mouth, the pride in his eyes. He could see how much his father loved him. “There is not a single person who will do the job as well as I know you will.” 

Damen felt something swell in his heart. Theomedes was right. It was his responsibility to take this position. He had been groomed for it his entire life. 

“I do love teaching,” Damen said. “But I loved Akeilon Publishing, too. When I resigned, I felt real grief over the loss.” 

“Is that a yes?” Theomedes asked, reaching across the table to grab Damen’s hand in an extremely paternal gesture. 

Damen nodded. “It’s a yes.”

** december 31, 1 hour until the new year **

As it turned out, Damen had a lot of catching up to do with everyone at Akeilon Publishing. And, as it turned out, it wasn’t just a few higher-ups who knew about the Jo debacle. It was everyone, though only Makedon had the guts to tell him this. Suddenly that coughing fit Nikandros had had a few weeks ago made more sense.

“Everyone was fucking terrified of her because of it,” Makedon said, as he chewed the olive from his martini. “No one crossed her.” 

Damen got the picture, but Makedon was drunk and kept going. 

“I mean, we were all thinking, ‘Does she have, like, chocolate-flavored nipples?’ With the way you resigned and then that fucking milksop she married.” 

Damen crossed his arms and cupped his chin thoughtfully. He could not yet decide if this embarrassed or amused him. Likely, it was Makedon who was to be embarrassed when he was announced as his father’s successor. 

“Mr. Akeilon,” said a silvery voice from his right. He turned to see Laurent, and, because he was a little drunk, he looked him up and down. His suit was impeccably tailored and a shade of blue and matched his eyes almost exactly. He noticed, with a start, that he was wearing a pair of smoking loafers--a surprisingly flamboyant choice for such a serious man. Laurent, who was not unaware of Damen’s eyes raking over him, raised an eyebrow. 

“I was wondering if you’d have this dance with me, though now I’m not wondering quite as fervently,” Laurent said, gesturing with a finger as the song changed. 

Damen’s mouth went dry and he nodded. Already, Makedon, with a drunken attention span, was speaking to some other unlucky bastard. 

“You looked like you needed rescuing,” Laurent said casually. 

“Astute,” Damen answered. “That’s twice now you’ve come to my aid. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you liked me.” 

Laurent’s eyes went comically wide for a split second and a blush formed on his cheeks. Damen was reminded of the child Laurent used to be. Lo--diffident and sweet and adorable, who Damen had always liked, and who always just needed a little coaxing to come out of his shell. 

“Did you mean what you said about creating intellectuals?” Damen asked, trying not to focus on Laurent’s arms around his neck (a professional distance away, but the heat where they touched was undeniable). 

“I did. Pedagogy is important to me, as well,” Laurent said, returning to his cool default. Then, after a beat during which it seemed Laurent was considering something carefully, he said in a significantly less-cool tone, “It’s actually how I got my job at Arles Publishing. I had this proposal about starting a program for underprivileged teens where we would help them with creative writing. I wanted someone from acquisitions to be there so we could make an anthology of their strongest work for each session.” 

“That’s--” Damen was recalibrating. He wanted to say brilliant, or noble, or beautiful, or very different from what he had initially thought Laurent was capable of. Instead, he said, “I’ve never heard of this program.” 

“That’s because the proposal got shot down. The anthologies were unlikely to sell well and, obviously, the classes would have to be free. Not a lot of money to be made. But they were impressed with the presentation anyway and I was offered a position in sub rights. Here I am.” 

Damen’s brow furrowed. “Well, that’s just bullshit. Logistically, charity is _always_ good. Not just altruistically, but from a PR standpoint as well.” 

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Laurent said. The passion in his tone had fled, and there was some strange, champagne-soaked part of Damen’s brain that wanted it back. 

“Do you still have the proposal?” Damen asked. “Akeilon Publishing has quite a few more resources than Arles. And I don’t mean to brag, but we’re rather more efficient, too.” 

Laurent raised an elegant eyebrow as they glided through the ballroom. “We?” 

“I mean,” Damen had gotten so used to the idea of his future position as CEO, and so comfortable talking to Laurent, and so buzzed by champagne, that he had forgotten completely that it was supposed to be a surprise. A surprise announced tonight, actually, by his father, and soon. “I mean we,” he said decisively. It was close enough that Laurent couldn’t really leak anything to Arles in a way that mattered.

“You understand that I care about my son first and my career second. The therapist said that stability is key to--” 

“I’m not leaving teaching until the end of the school year,” Damen cut in, both understanding Laurent’s concern and impressed at Laurent’s very clear-cut selflessness. He gave Laurent his award-winning, million-watt smile. “I admire how well you care for Nicaise.” 

And there he was--there was Lo. Wide-eyed, timid, and deeply, deeply good. Laurent made a surprised noise. It was almost inaudible, how quiet it was.

“I mean it. I see some really inattentive parents in my line of work. I really think you’re doing something amazing with Nicaise. He has straight A’s now and he’s--” 

Damen did not get to finish his sentence, because Laurent had kissed him. It was quick--achingly so--and Damen would have thought he imagined it were his lips not electrified from the touch. 

Laurent’s eyes were wide and unguarded as he looked up at him. He could have shouted it: Lo! Lo! Lo! He would do anything to keep him like this. 

The song ended. A new one didn’t start, and someone tapped a mic. Damen realized that this was the announcement. He still hadn’t removed his hands from Laurent’s waist. He did not want to, because doing so would be to move into the next moment, where Damen would be named the next CEO of Akeilon Publishing, and he would offer Laurent a job running this charity venture, and he would be unable to kiss him again. He had the maddening urge to kiss Laurent again, and thought: _a company or this?_

Laurent, clever enough to have parsed together what was going on, pointed and said, “The stage is that way. Go have your big moment.” 

So he let go of Laurent’s waist and moved toward the stage dumbly. His father had begun a speech about his history at Akeilon publishing, occasionally mentioning Damen’s own illustrious career. It was lost on no one where this was going and the audience was buzzing with energy. People clapped him on the shoulder as he wove through the crowd. 

“My son is a man who has shown an unparalleled dedication to doing what is right. This man is a qualified leader--”

Damen was next to the stairs of the stage and stretched his neck up to try to find Laurent. He did not see him. The crowd cheered loudly, though, and Damen realized that it was his turn to speak. He climbed the stairs to accept the job he had been born for.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fuck this really got away from me. It's now three parts! I hate myself!! Sorry guys.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading. Comments make my day.

** december 31, 45 minutes until the new year **

Laurent did not stick around to watch Damen’s acceptance speech. Instead, he found himself in the gender-neutral bathroom, gripping either side of the sink, staring in the mirror and repeating: “Oh my fucking Christ,” to himself at different levels of distress. There was a very specific brand of stupid that would cause you to kiss a man who had literally just offered you a job, especially when said man had such a staunch policy against office romances that he very infamously resigned from his position to be in a relationship with an employee. There was also a very specific brand of stupid that would cause you to kiss your son’s teacher, who was, of all things, your brother’s best friend. All these factors intersected here, on the cusp of an anxiety attack, as the leaky faucet in front of him punctuated his _Oh my fucking Christ_ s with its drips.

What was worse: Damen had looked at him _tenderly_. He could deal with it if Damen had looked at him hungrily; lust was not something he was unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of. Lust was easy to navigate and easy to shut down. And he could have even dealt with a look of disgust. He could have lied and said he’d been drinking and caught up in the moment. But that soft expression on Damen’s emotive face? Laurent had no idea what to do with that. 

And the look of tenderness had not even been the worst part. The worst part was the horrifying (and perversely blissful) sensation of all those dormant feelings he had once held for Damen waking up. Had he ever really gotten over Damen, as he had told himself he had? 

Was this why his dates never really worked out? His excuses of _I’m focusing on my career right now and not looking for anything serious_ , or _Nicaise isn’t ready for me to bring someone into the picture_ , were all reframed in his mind. 

And so there it was. Inside of him, there was still a red-faced, stammering nine-year-old boy, and a fifteen-year-old hormonal mess, and those two versions of himself (and also the current, cold twenty-two-year-old version as well) loved Damen. 

In retrospect, this had to be the real reason Laurent had avoided him all these years--not an easy task, given how frequently Damen and Auguste saw each other. He had managed to cultivate his bookish personality in such a way that he could dodge any invitation to parties of group settings and--if something was sprung on him--he had mastered the Irish Goodbye, ducking out a side door and hailing a taxi within thirty seconds of hearing, “Damen might join us.” He had done this so often that Auguste (who had not seemed to put together the pattern that the common denominator in all these events was Damen) was no longer offended by it, good-naturedly shrugging his shoulders and saying, “That’s just Lo,” whenever Auguste had found that he’d bailed. 

Only a person in love would do such a thing--avoid Damen for years only to kiss him because he had paid Laurent a compliment. How foolish he was to think he was too cynical or too smart to fall victim to the charms of a competent, tall man. But empires have toppled over men not half as great as Damen, so why would Laurent be immune? Was loving him really so bad? 

Yes, Laurent decided summarily. Love was agony. That was that. 

As if dusting his hands of the situation, he slipped out of the bathroom (and the ball), and tapped a few buttons on his phone to signal a Lyft. He heard fireworks distantly as the car neared his house--it was midnight, he realized.

** five minutes until midnight, january 1, the new year **

Damen, who had been given celebratory drink after celebratory drink, was still looking for Laurent, though in his glittery, drunken haze, he was not nearly as focused as he could have been. He spotted Auguste first and slung his arm around his shoulder. Auguste, who had somehow gained a cape and a top hat since they’d last seen one another, was three sheets to the wind and smiled crookedly at Damen.

“Where’s Lo?” Damen shouted over the music. 

“What?” Auguste shouted back. And then, after his gin-doused brain had processed what Damen had asked, he said, “Oh. He probably dipped.” 

“Without saying goodbye?” Damen asked, too inebriated to keep the hurt out of his voice. But Auguste was too inebriated to notice that hurt, and he grinned. 

“Yeah, that’s, like, his thing,” he said, taking a glance at his watch. “Oh shit, it’s almost time!” 

Damen, slightly bewildered at the fact that Laurent had straight up ditched the party without so much as a word, blinked confusedly as the countdown began. He was lucky, all things considered, that Laurent had left. His inhibitions were low and Laurent was _attractive_. Not only that, but he was funny, and sweet, and weird in a charming way, and the liquor was making him come up with all kinds of excuses: _I won’t be his boss for five months yet_ , for example, or _He started it_ , both of which a rational part of his brain could still recognize as flimsy. So it was a good thing Laurent was gone. Really. 

Confetti rained down from the ceiling and everyone around him was cheering. Auguste pulled him in for a too-tight hug, sloshing the gin and tonic in his hands all over the place--it was midnight, he realized.

** january 5, 4 days after the new year **

It was Nicaise’s first day back to school and Laurent was pulling out all the stops for breakfast. He had spent a full hour making praline waffles from scratch after finding the recipe on the Williams Sonoma website, and, as he was spooning batter into the waffle iron, his cell phone on the counter lit up with a reminder: “ **  
PRESENTATION: 10 AM, AKEILON PUBLISHING, 7TH FLOOR.   
**” As if he could forget. A woman named Lykaios had called him to set the appointment three days ago, as if three days was enough time to update the presentation and tailor it to Akeilon Publishing’s specifications. Still, he had swallowed this complaint and said, “Sounds great!” because it wasn’t like opportunities like this came along every day.

“Nicaise! Breakfast!” Laurent shouted down the hallway, passing a mirror and realizing that he had somehow gotten a smudge of batter on his forehead. He had two hours after he dropped off Nicaise left to shower, call work to take a personal day, and get down to Akeilon Publishing in the city.

He scrolled through the PowerPoint slides on his phone, rehearsing what he planned to say. 

“Are you still going through your presentation?” Nicaise said, entering the kitchen. There was too much pomade in his hair and he was still fussing with it as he sat in front of his plate of waffles. 

“You can never be too prepared,” Laurent said, pouring Nicaise orange juice before sitting down to his own breakfast (slightly more modest, one waffle and a poached egg), and rereading for the hundredth time a slide entitled “Potential Growth.” 

There was one benefit of having this meeting so soon: Damianos Akeilon was teaching, and there was no way he could possibly be one of the people he had to impress. 

That’s what he told himself as he walked Nicaise to school, and as he climbed into the shower, and as he pulled on that oxford blue suit with the silk lining fresh from the dry cleaner. It’s what he told himself as he got into the black Tesla Akeilon Publishing had sent to fetch him-- “Parking in the city is impossible, we’ll take care of your transportation,” Lykaios had said over the phone--and as Lykaios greeted him in the lobby and gave him a brief tour of the building, culminating in leading him to a conference room with a projector set up. And he believed it, up until the moment it was proven false. 

Laurent, whose back was turned away from the room as he fiddled with the projector, heard the door snick open and froze as Damen’s sweet, deep voice apologetically said: “Thank you for waiting for me, ladies and gentlemen.” 

They hadn’t been waiting for him, at least not that Laurent was aware of, but that was the thing about powerful men: they phrased their sentences in ways that avoided meekness. _Thank you for waiting_ instead of _I’m sorry for being late_. It was subtle and the pure confidence it exuded bordered on the erotic, in Laurent’s opinion. 

Laurent turned around slowly, so as not to show alarm or even interest and watched as Damen settled in next to Nikandros, whispering something in his ear that caused Nikandros to give a sharp laugh. 

The problem with the body is that it is a traitor; Laurent detested his sympathetic nervous system more in that moment than he had ever detested anything. His heart pounded, his cheeks burned, and he trembled and thought: _Traitor, traitor, traitor!_

His voice, at least, did not shake as he said, “What a pleasant surprise, Mr. Akeilon,” and he began his presentation. 

When he concluded, he turned on the lights and asked, “Are there any questions?” 

A few people had basic questions about logistics which Laurent answered easily until Damen cut off the questions and said, “We already have a budget allocation for charity, which, in my opinion, could be used more efficiently. In essence, we have markedly more money than what you’re requesting. What would you be able to do with, say, double the funds?” 

“D-double?” Laurent stammered, his eyes wide. He had walked in expecting a fight, expecting to have to justify every dollar he requested. But who was he kidding? Damen was involved, and that meant that everything was going to feel like a dream. He allowed himself to very briefly imagine what a relief it would be to surrender himself to Damen, who could, it seemed, take care of anything. Damen--capable, unyielding, someone who Laurent could lean on. 

But that was an impossible fantasy, broken by Nikandros saying, “Don’t give away the fucking farm, Damen,” which would have been a laughable statement coming from any other mid-level employee in subsidiary rights, but Damen trusted Nikandros with his life and everyone knew it. 

“Hardly,” Damen said, signaling at Lykaios, who obediently set down a few file folders in front of the two men. “Look at this.” 

“Whose employee ID--” Nikandros started, scanning the information in the file. He stopped at something, visibly paled, and cut his gaze to the side. “Double,” he finally agreed. 

“Alright. I’ll have to get this cleared with the board, but that’ll be easy. I’d like to make you an offer.” 

Laurent’s traitorous eyes became misty and he had to take in a deep breath. Double the funds. This was a dream come true.

** january 10, 9 days after the new year **

Something Damen had always liked about teaching: he got off mid-afternoon every day, several hours before anyone at Akeilon Publishing was off. Since publicly accepting the position of CEO, which he’d take in May, he’d spent every afternoon at Akeilon Publishing, going over expense reports and things he had missed in the last two years. It was during this time that he found something rather interesting. His employee identification, two weeks after he’d resigned and the ID should not have worked, transferring the budget allocation for charity to a new account. It happened again the next year just before the surplus was determined by accounting, again using his employee ID. Jo was the only person who knew that number besides maybe his father, and she was the only person smart and devious enough to pull off such a feat. When he cross-referenced the times she’d been in the office with the times the transfers had occurred, it painted a very damning picture. Damen guessed that she planned on cleaning out the account on her last day. Too bad all that money was now en route to serve its intended purpose.

“I believe I gave your retirement fund away,” Damen said casually, leaning against the doorframe of Jo’s office. 

He had expected her to deny it, but instead she said, “Yes, I heard.” 

He nearly lost his temper, but managed to keep his voice even as he said, “You were going to embezzle money allocated for charity.” 

“Allegedly,” Jo answered. Her office was nearly all the way packed; today was her last day. “The new CFO, after you resigned, didn’t know about the money. It was just sitting there. For all I knew, it would never get spent.” 

“Terribly sorry to have thrown a wrench in your plans,” he bit out. In truth, he was positively enraged. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined something like this could happen, but it was precisely the sort of thing he’d intended to avoid by resigning to pursue a relationship with an employee. 

“Am I correct in assuming you aren’t pressing charges?” Jo asked, infuriatingly calm as she continued boxing things up. 

He had gone back and forth about whether or not to completely ruin Jo’s life over this. Nikandros had thought that she should be made an example of, and Theomedes--a little embarrassed that he’d been checked out enough to not notice over a million dollars being squirreled away into a separate account--had said that he’d leave the decision up to Damen. In the end, Damen had decided not to go to the police, though he’d informed the lawyers of the discrepancy.

“It’s a five-year statute of limitations,” Damen said coolly, crossing his arms. “I might still change my mind.” 

“If you recall, I never actually stole anything,” Jo said. “Do you mind carrying my aloe plant to my car? I’m with child.” 

Damen stared at her, one part impressed and three parts disgusted by her nerves of steel before pressing a couple of buttons on the landline on the desk and saying, “Can someone send up security to escort an employee off the premises? Fifth floor.” When the secretary on the other end agreed, he tersely said, “To help you carry your things, of course.” 

“Of course,” Jo said, equally as terse.

** january 21, 20 days and 16 hours after the new year **

Akeilon Publishing had given Laurent office space on the ground level of their main building downtown, which was as far as physically possible from Damen’s future office on the top floor and therefore suited Laurent just fine. He shared the space with a few people whose jobs he did not know and who never asked him what he did either. He could tell that people were at least marginally curious about him from the way they’d glance at him and he could also tell they were at least marginally intimidated by him because they had not--thank fucking Christ--invited him to the break room to sing happy birthday to someone turning forty and eat cake.

He was still in the early stages of developing the curriculum and he was in the middle of creating a seminar and writing exercise surrounding Franz Kafka’s _A Hunger Artist_ , something he’d read himself as a teenager and had always stuck with him, when his office phone rang. 

“Laurent de Vere,” Laurent said, expecting the person on the other end to have dialed the wrong extension. This had already happened three times; he had not received any calls actually meant for him. 

“Laurent de Vere,” Auguste mocked from the other end. 

Laurent had the urge to hang up immediately, and he hoped that Auguste could somehow sense his eyes rolling. “How did you get this number?”

“Nicaise gave it to me. You aren’t answering your cell.” 

“Yeah, I’m at work,” Laurent said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“That’s an excellent segue for me. We’re going out to celebrate your new job tonight.” 

“Absolutely not,” Laurent said, looking down at the piles of work he had on his desk.

“I have reservations at Aquitart and I’ve already invited Nicaise and told him he could order every dessert on the menu,” Auguste said triumphantly, knowing that Laurent couldn’t back out if doing so meant gravely disappointing Nicaise. 

“I hate you so much,” Laurent said without any heat.

“Come on. You could do a lot worse than having a beautiful meal at the nicest restaurant in the city with your loving family,” Auguste said back, not at all phased by Laurent’s declaration. “Okay, be there at seven. I’ll pick up Nicaise.” 

Without waiting for an answer, Auguste hung up, leaving Laurent to stare at his notes on Kafka. 

He felt like he’d completed almost nothing since his conversation with Auguste hours ago when he heard a knock on the door frame of his office. It was late and most folks had already gone home for the night and so he was startled when, looking up and expecting the janitor asking if he could come in and take the trash, he saw Damianos Akeilon, wearing a tweed suit far too nice for a day of teaching adolescents. 

He nearly said, _We have to stop meeting like this_.

He nearly said, _Do you delight in catching me by surprise_? 

He nearly said, _Your suit matches your eyes_.

Instead, he flushed (traitorous cheeks) and said, “Yes?” 

“It’s half past six,” Damen said, tapping on his watch to emphasize. “Auguste said seven. I’ve called a car for us.” 

Laurent, stupidly, opened and closed his mouth, resembling a fish. “Us?” he finally managed. 

“Auguste didn’t tell you? He invited me along,” Damen said easily. 

Laurent could not believe this. Worse, Damen did not look sheepish, or like he was intruding. Of course he didn’t; he had never been intruding in his life. Everyone always wanted him around. Laurent snatched up his messenger bag, more than a little flustered, and started gathering up his papers. 

“Let me help,” Damen offered, all chivalry as he took a step into the office and picked up Laurent’s laptop and zipped in into its protective case. 

Laurent hazarded a glance up at him, momentarily too thankful that he had not done anything completely embarrassing to guard his expression. 

“Oh,” Damen said, meeting his eyes. “You have some ink,” he touched the pad of his thumb to his own lower lip to indicate where it was on Laurent.

Without thinking, Laurent let his tongue dart out and run over his lower lip. Damen was watching this, and something fiery flashed across his eyes. They both realized that their faces were too close together at the same time, though Laurent was decidedly less smooth about getting distance between them. Mechanically, he marched toward the door. 

“Shall we, then?” he said, infusing as much ice as he could into the words. Distance, distance, distance. 

_You’re fucking dead_ , Laurent texted to Auguste as the two walked through the office space. It was also at this moment that Laurent realized that the few colleagues who remained at work were openly gawking. Some part of him--the theatrical part that loved drama--reveled in the shocked expressions of the people who wordlessly passed by his office throughout the day. The shy part of him, though, had to fight to keep his chin high.

** january 21, 20 days, 18 hours, and 45 minutes after the new year  **

Damen had not yet discovered what the secret formula was to teasing out Lo from Laurent, but he caught glimpses of Lo here and there. The most had been when he’d offered Laurent the job and his blue eyes had practically sparkled. It had been sweet, and he’d wanted to stay and watch as an adorable, dumbstruck Laurent started the onboarding process. But, alas, he had to get back to Chastillon to teach a fucking American Literature class and he’d used his free period and lunch to be there in the first place.

And he’d seen it just a few minutes earlier when he’d told Laurent about the ink on his lip. Laurent had swiped his rose petal lips with his tongue and Damen had had to resist the urge to follow that tongue with his into Laurent’s lovely, pink mouth. 

As it was, Laurent sat rather stiffly in the seat beside him, and as far away as physically possible, essentially pressed against the car door. 

In a valiant effort at conversation, Damen said, “I saw you were doing something with Kafka.” 

“I am,” Laurent answered, not giving any footing. 

Determined to get something out of Laurent, because he’d come to realize that he loved talking to Laurent when Laurent was willing, Damen said, “My boyfriend in college loved Eastern European writers. Bulgakov, Dostoevsky, Kafka. One day I said--I swear I was joking--that Kafka didn’t mean to symbolize anything in _The Metamorphosis_ , that the guy just turned into a cockroach like in those _Twilight Zone_ episodes where there’s no moral and Rod Serling is like, ‘Isn’t this shit fucked up?’” 

Damen could see that he’d managed to get a smile out of Laurent, and so he continued, “Dude broke up with me on the spot and stomped right back to his, like, art collective.” 

Laurent laughed, a close-mouthed and restrained thing, and said, “I’m sorry my lesson plans have brought back such painful memories for you.” 

The car stopped then, before Damen could think of something charming and funny to say back and a valet opened the door closest to Laurent, which gave him a start and returned him to his usual rigidity. 

Aquitart was crowded--it was a Friday night and the place was always booked up ever since it had gotten a Michelin star the previous year--and so Damen was, frustratingly, pressed into Laurent as the hostess led them to a semi-private table where Auguste and Nicaise were already seated. 

“Lo!” Auguste greeted cheerfully, standing to give Damen a quick bro hug and then turning to Laurent to ruffle his hair. 

Laurent ducked out of the way, jabbing at Auguste’s ribs and, in an unmistakably bratty tone that Damen had absolutely never heard Laurent use before, said, “Touch my hair and die. You’re on thin fucking ice as it is.” 

Some part of Damen’s brain short-circuited then and he briefly imagined Laurent, coquettish and dressed only in one of Damen’s button-ups, too loose on him, not quite buttoned correctly, exposing his lovely clavicle, as pale and smooth as mother of pearl. 

“Get on the bed,” Damen would say. 

“Make me,” Laurent would say in that same bratty tone. And then Damen would make him, and Laurent wouldn’t be quite so bratty as Damen took him apart piece by piece. 

He was losing his fucking mind, he decided. He’d gone down this road before with Jo, and it had ended very, very badly. Hadn’t he learned his lesson? 

But Damen was nothing if not a completely hopeless romantic who would always be ready to get hurt again, and the entire dinner through, he forced himself to think of the least sexy things imaginable: off-balance laundry machines, episodes of _Full House_ , Twitter drama, anything to keep himself from looking over at Laurent, whose pale cheeks were lightly flushed the color of rose quartz. Laurent, who had ordered his meal in perfect French. Laurent, sitting inches away from him, blissfully unaware of the shiver that had rolled through Damen when their ankles had accidentally knocked together. 

By the end of the evening, Damen knew one thing for sure: he was in deep, deep trouble.

** february 14, 44 days after the new year **

Laurent stared suspiciously at the flower bouquet he found atop his desk. It was a lovely arrangement--white roses accented with blue larkspur, blue veronica, and purple snapdragons. Still, he regarded it carefully, like it might come to life and attack him, circling the thing until he found the card. He was certain he’d made it clear that he wasn’t interested in dating anyone in the office--the two men who’d asked him out since he’d started had received vehement rejections--and it wasn’t like you sent flowers to anyone on Valentine’s Day for anything other than romance. The card, which bore the name of the florist on the front, contained this message:

**THE WORLD IS CHANGED BECAUSE YOU ARE MADE OF IVORY AND GOLD. THE CURVES OF YOUR LIPS REWRITE HISTORY.**

Laurent frowned. It was a quote he recognized from _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , which out of context sounded romantic but in the context of the book really wasn’t. 

He pulled out his phone and searched the florist, clicking on their phone number when it came up. 

“Yes, hello,” Laurent said when someone picked up. “I received a flower arrangement from your establishment today but it appears the sender forgot to sign his or her name. Might you be so kind as to provide that information for me so that I may thank them?” 

“Hm,” the woman on the other end said. “What was the order number? It should be on the back of your card.” 

Laurent read a string of digits out loud. 

“Oh, I remember this guy!” the woman said after a few clicks on a keyboard. “He didn’t provide a name and paid cash, so I can’t look it up for you. Sorry.” 

“Well, do you remember what he looked like?” Laurent asked, utterly baffled. 

“Tall, dark, and handsome,” the woman chuckled from the other end. “Really tall. I mean, like 6’7, maybe.” 

“Thank you!” Laurent said, his voice shooting up about three octaves as he hung up. There was only one person Laurent knew who matched that description, but thinking that the flowers could be from Damen was too good to be true. Then again, everything regarding Damen was too good to be true, from doubling the budget of Laurent’s charity venture to the cut of his beautiful, square jaw. 

But if it was truly an earnest expression of admiration, why hadn’t Damen signed his name? Why even send it at all, if they couldn’t be together? And Damen hadn’t said two romantic words to Laurent in all these weeks. And what kind of fucking sap bought into Valentine’s Day and all its commercialism, anyway?

Damen. Damen was precisely the kind of sap who’d buy into Valentine’s Day. 

Laurent smiled fondly at the flowers, a little wistful, and pressed one of the snapdragons between the pages of his Moleskine notebook.

** march 21, 79 days after the new year **

“Would it be weird if I invited Lo along?” Auguste asked, stealing a french fry from Damen’s plate, completely oblivious to how Damen utterly froze at that question.

They were planning a long weekend at Damen’s family’s lakeside cabin now that the weather was getting warmer, tentatively setting the date for late May, which would serve both as a celebration for Damen’s new job and the last hurrah of having relatively few responsibilities. Running a company is, after all, a very stressful affair. 

“Why would that be weird?” Damen choked out, thankful for his dark complexion which concealed his blush. There was no way Auguste knew about his feelings for Laurent. Was there? 

“Well, like, how comfortable are you with one of your employees besides Nikandros seeing you totally sloshed?” 

Nikandros, who, by all appearances, knew about (or at least suspected) Damen’s feelings, rather pointedly said, “Yeah, it might not be very professional.” 

“It’ll be fine,” Damen said just as pointedly. “I’m sure Laurent wouldn’t sacrifice a weekend away from Nicaise. He’ll just say no, you might as well invite him. It’s a nice gesture.” 

“You’re probably right,” Auguste said, typing a message out on his phone anyway.

** may 20, 139 days after the new year **

Damen had never in his life regretted being wrong to this degree. Both Damen and Auguste had been shocked when Laurent had agreed to come along and Damen, being who he was, had decided not to think about what that might mean for him until he was confronted with Laurent bounding out of his house in a completely see-through white chiffon shirt and rather short denim cut-offs and jumping into the back seat next to him.

Damen should have slept with someone last night. Two people, maybe, though he guessed that on a Wednesday night it might be hard to pick someone up, let alone two people. No, he should have fucked two people a day for the last three weeks. He should have jerked off in the shower that morning. 

Laurent, it seemed, was trying to kill Damen, because he grabbed a water bottle out of his bag and drank ravenously. Damen watched as a rivulet of water traveled down his chin, down his neck, and Damen had to resist the urge to trace its path with his fingers as it disappeared down his shirt. Damen clenched and unclenched his jaw. This was going to be the worst weekend of his life, he was sure of it.

** may 21, 140 days after the new year **

Laurent was fairly sure he was being obvious, though he’d never tried to seduce anyone before, and could possibly be going about it all wrong. Short of grabbing Damen by the lapels of his shirt and saying, “I need you to hold me against the wall and fuck me senseless,” which didn’t strike Laurent as a particularly wise thing to say to someone who, starting Monday, was going to be his boss, he wasn’t sure what he could do. He couldn’t make the first move, he knew that for certain, because it wouldn’t be _his_ career he’d be jeopardizing. And furthermore, making the first move simply wasn’t in Laurent’s nature.

Worse, it was becoming more and more apparent that Damen was interested and making a noble effort of resisting his more base instincts. Yesterday, after Nikandros had gone to bed and Auguste was doing dishes in the kitchen, Laurent had stretched out languidly on the floor of the living room, making a real show of it. His shirt, which did nothing to protect his modesty in the first place, rose above his navel. He let out a small moan at the stretch, making sure it was audible enough for Damen to hear. 

Abruptly, Damen had stood up from where he was sitting in an overstuffed armchair. “I’m going swimming,” he announced, his voice just a little more strained than what was natural. 

“But it’s dark out,” Laurent said, more caught off-guard than anything. Damen waved his hand as if to say he didn’t care and practically sprinted outside. 

So he certainly did have an effect on Damen. He knew he hadn’t imagined it when he strolled into the kitchen fresh after his shower with his towel slung low around his hips--so low that his Adonis belt was clearly visible--and Damen’s eyes went wide. He had nearly squeezed against him to get a mug out of the cabinet for coffee, which would have surely been Damen’s breaking point, had Auguste not walked in at that very moment and jokingly said, “Put some clothes on, you whore.” 

Presently, it was Friday, mid-afternoon, and Laurent had just gotten off the phone with Nicaise, who was staying the weekend with a friend. He was stirring honey into a cup of tea, and squeezed some, quite by accident, onto his finger, which he brought to his mouth and sucked clean. He glanced up to find Damen, staring raptly at him, eyes a little narrow as though working out a puzzle, and he felt himself turn a violent vermillion. 

Damen stalked past him, grabbed a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue by the neck (the contents of which, Laurent noticed with a twinge of longing, were the exact color of Damen’s eyes), and stiffly walked out without so much as a greeting.

** may 26, 145 days after the new year **

Damen had barely made it through the weekend. By Saturday, he was nearing the point of wanting to chew glass. On Sunday, he emerged from the bathroom after a cold shower to see Laurent, rumpled from sleep, padding through the hallway, and turned right around and took another cold shower. And there was a completely irrational part of his brain that said Laurent was doing this on purpose, which was ridiculous.

But he couldn’t stop thinking of Laurent. Of Laurent, in a ridiculously large sunhat, reading a copy of _East of Eden_ in a lounge chair as Damen, in the lake, tried to work off his sexual energy by aggressively swimming laps. Of Laurent when he thought no one was watching him: unguarded and not performing that cold, calculating persona. Of Laurent, asleep on the couch, expression angelic and achingly peaceful. Of Laurent, shirtless in the kitchen with dripping wet hair, his body not as skinny as Damen had thought, muscles surprisingly taut under his soft-looking skin. 

He had survived the weekend firstly by getting so fucking tanked that he forgot he even had a dick in the first place and secondly by putting a significant amount of distance between himself and the object of his desire. _Desire_ , as if this was just about lust. As if he’d ever anonymously sent a flower arrangement to someone he just wanted to bed. As if he hadn’t spent sleepless nights searching on his phone, “de Vere + foster care + Varenne,” in order to read about what Laurent had done to save Nicaise, becoming more and more enamored with the amazing person Laurent had grown up to be. He was dense, sure, but not in fucking denial. He was gone; completely fucking over the moon for Laurent de Vere. 

He did things only people in love do. He laid awake at night thinking about minute details of Laurent’s appearance: his teeth, his earlobes, his fucking fingernails. He obsessively checked Laurent’s social media (a pathetic three Instagram posts, the most recent being from September, which Damen was positive were actually uploaded by Nicaise). His body buzzed with just the knowledge that Laurent was in the same building. Why, oh why, did he put Laurent in the furthest reach of the building, where it was impossible for Damen to stroll by all casual-like and make small talk--“Oh, I was just passing by. How’re you today?” Well, Damen knew exactly why he’d done it; it had been preventative. Out of sight, out of mind. 

Except Laurent was never out of mind. Not really. 

And that’s why it only took Damen a few days of working as CEO to wander down to the ground level where Laurent’s office was and where, when he arrived, Laurent was not. He was about to turn around, taking Laurent’s absence as a sign--divine intervention to fucking cool it--when something on the wall caught his eye. It was the message he’d given the florist, framed with one of the flowers pressed flat below it. The sight of it shot pain through him like an arrow and he looked at the ceiling, slightly overcome with emotion. Sweet, sentimental Laurent, not even knowing who’d given him those flowers, kept around a reminder of it. 

Damen needed air, suddenly, and dug his phone out of his pocket. He dialed Nikandros (stupid, since they worked in the same building now, but Damen didn’t feel like walking up six flights of stairs and he felt even less like standing in an elevator), and, when Nik picked up, he said, “I’ve got a huge fucking problem.”


End file.
